ou're smarter than them. The spooks can watch you from cover all day, and when they find your weak spot, that's where they'll strike... And another thing - Don't be afraid of being demanding and meticulous with the men. If you nursemaid them, they'll be on your back in a flash. If you can't control them through strictness - use force! A good fight in wartime is good practice, insurance against losses. If you see that the "elephants" are getting out of hand - beat the shit out of them! So that they won't loosen up after Chistyakov. You have to keep a constant eye on those slobs. See that they don't sell fuel to the spooks, that they're wearing their bullet-proof vests when you go out on combat duty. If one of them catches a bullet, you're the one who's going to have to drag his body. If anyone disobeys you - pow! Straight in the kisser! All they understand is force! They behaved themselves beautifully under Zhenka. And Zhenka kept them safe. Now they're grateful that he beat some sense into them and they're still alive..." "But you don't hit them, like Chistyakov..." demurred Yepimakhov. "When you've served six months here, you can decide whether to bash a soldier in the liver, or address him formally... As a matter of fact, you haven't seen me working out, but if need be, I can hurt them more than Zhenka could, if they deserve it..." "Know something?" asked Yepimakhov, looking like a mischievous small boy. "Yesterday, after lights out, there was this stamping on the roof. I thought it was a whole herd of mice running to the other end of the barracks to feed, racing each other to the table, so to speak. Claws scratching on the wood. You know what the men thought up? They've already killed about a hundred mice, put out traps for them." "That was a favorite pastime of Zhenka's." "...then last night I heard: snap! Everyone ran to see. A mouse! Honestly, everyone was so happy! They were squealing like children." "They are children..." "They put this mouse into an empty pail, sprayed it with petrol - I thought there'd be a fire, but there wasn't - and threw in a lighted match. You should have seen it! The mouse went up in flames, it must have hurt terribly, it was all aflame and running around the bottom of the pail like crazy. Everyone was laughing! It was just like a living torch!" "Check out that everything's all right in there," said Sharagin, indicating the barracks, "and let's go eat. I'm starved." In the smoking room near the mess hall, hungry officers milled around under a canopy of camouflage netting. Lieutenant-colonel Bogdanov, who was temporarily in command of the regiment, was strutting past headquarters, shoulders back and chest forward, like some hero from a folk tale. Warily, they eyed this officer, with fists like basketballs. It was said that he once killed a spook with a mere blow of his fist.... ...there is an unpleasant look in his eye, that lieutenant-colonel...makes your skin crawl...the 'grandpas' straighten their belts and backs at the sight of him....they're afraid of him....they respect him .... Bogdanov is strict beyond the call of duty...and rarely fair ....a petty tyrant ... if he's appointed permanent commander, it'll be curtains for us all... commanders like that only think about ranks and titles... "...what in hell do you want with Yugoslavia, Petrovich?" demanded a warrant officer. "What will you do there?" "They sell these cans of cherries from Yugoslavia in the quartermaster's store. What does it say on the cans? Yugotutun or something. " "So?" "I want to go to that factory in Yugoslavia and see how they take the stones out of the cherries." "There's probably a machine that does it," suggested captain Osipov. "That's really interesting - can't say it ever occurred to me before." "Or they sit there and remove them by hand." "Nah, by hand? That many cans? Can't be done." "Why not? Easy as anything. D'you know how many potatoes a platoon can peel in an hour?" "About five sacks." "Five? Ten! You just have to clout them hard and often enough." "A few tons in a night," was the general agreement. "So in Yugoslavia they've got soldiers pitting those cherries. So what?" "Wheeee!" the eyes of all the officers senior and junior followed a very plump young woman who was heading for the mess hall. "A new waitress!" "Hey, Yakimchuk, look at that ass! All that fat! You'd never manage to eat that much in a year!" said someone. Then it was a free-for-all: "That's some workbench! Enough for a whole platoon!" "Yes, man, that's a delayed action sex bomb..." "Nah, she's not my type..." "Who's asking you? "In Afghanistan, pal, you don't have much choice. You take what's available..." "Spending winter with a woman like that would be easy. She'd keep the whole barracks warm." "Where the hell did they find her?" "She's instead of Luska..." "What Luska?" "Remember, the one with the big tits?" "Oh yeah, I remember her..." "She didn't work long before she got herself under Bogdanov." "He's a real one for the ladies, that's true. A stallion!" "He didn't have much time to ride her, though. She got herself in with a general from headquarters while Bogdanov was away on combat duty. The general had her transferred closer to him. Maybe it's a lie, but I've heard that the general recommended her for a medal." "Well, well: "Ivan gets a poke up the ass for being in the attack, and Masha gets a Red Star award for her cunt..." "That's what I'm saying: this new one will be under some colonel soon enough." "Who'd want a fat slob like that?" "They could have sent someone a bit thinner. I went to pick up the "elephants" last week, and you should have seen the dames that arrive! Make your eyes pop. And what do we get? We have to look at that fat ass every day in the mess hall! She'll never squeeze between the tables! Makes you sick... I'm not going to the mess any more." "So who's forcing you?" "You lads have got it all wrong," chided a gray-haired warrant officer after the doors into the mess hall slammed shut behind the new waitress. "You're laughing, but there's a man for every woman here. Not a single one will be left with nothing to do. This one will find her match, too..." "Maybe it will be you, Petrovich?" suggested someone. Everybody laughed. "In that case, all the parachute silk in the regiment will have to be used up for her knickers! ..." Butts were thrown into the shell case that served as an ashtray, the smokers headed for the mess. Only two remained in the smoking hut - Sharagin and Yepimakhov. Oleg had wanted to draw his friend away, but the other was obviously interested in the neighboring conversation, even though he pretended he was not listening and sat with his back turned. "Take my family, now, Petrovich," said one of the warrant officers. "My wife doesn't work. Two kids. A third was born last year. D'you know what she gets from the state? Thirty five rubles a month! Thirty five! If anything happens to me here..." "Nothing'll happen to you, you're in the rear, damn it!" "No, I'm serious. If anything happens to me, how will she live? I wouldn't walk to the fucking checkpoint for thirty five rubles! " "You will, what can you do?" insisted the gray-haired warrant officer. "If you're ordered, you'll go." "No I won't! As a matter of principle! But you tell me, how can anyone live on that? And they want me not to steal!" "All right, let's go," said Oleg rising, bored with this chatter. "No wonder their character reports say that warrant officers are "thoughtful" and "have staying power"...." "In what way?" ... this kid's really from another world... "Well...how shall I put it to be fair? I don't mean all warrant officers. Our Pashkov won his medal fair and square. But those two - they're quartermaster's rats. They're not equal to Pashkov. So they're "thoughtful" and "have staying power" because they sit around in their store jerking off until dinner time, thinking and thinking, and after dinner they need staying power to carry away all that they've stolen. When you go into town, you'll see that all the shops are full of our products. You and I are supposed to be fed normally, but these sons of bitches sell off everything right and left, while we Soviet officers are left with fuck all!" "When do you think there'll be a chance to go into town, Oleg?" asked Yepimakhov once they were in the mess hall. "Been here five minutes, and he's already wanting to go into town," commented Nemilov sarcastically. "But it would be interesting to take a look..." "Save up your chits first," advised Zebrev across the table. "Everything in its own time," winked Sharagin. Spooning soup from a plastic bowl, Sharagin remembered his first clandestine visit into town. Together with Ivan Zebrev, who was going on leave and had to buy up as much as possible, they had taken their chances and gone around the shops. Unfortunately for them, an order had been issued forbidding anyone going into town for security reasons. You could leave your unit only with written permission from headquarters, so the MPs were having a field day rounding up everyone from the shops. They dressed in "civvies" and gave a bottle of "Stolichnaya" to be taken out of the camp in a BMP, worrying all the way that something would happen and their absence would be noticed. Nemilov might report them. They dodged patrols. Sharagin almost fainted the first time he entered a shop and saw the abundance of imported goods: jeans, all sorts of cloth, shoes, folding sunglasses, quartz watches, cigarette lighters of different kinds. He suddenly felt offended on behalf of Lena and Nastyusha, who were back there in the Soviet Union and would never see anything like this. ... how wonderful it would be if Lena could choose whatever she wanted!...I'd give her all my chits - let her enjoy herself...and the children's things! why are all our children so gray and unattractive? why can't we make decent clothing for them?!.. Oh, what a chewing out they got from Morgultsev later! He treated them like naughty children! He almost burst with indignation when he found he'd been fooled by his lieutenants, he'd shouted and shouted, about twenty minutes, turned red as a beet, and ended by saying: "You have been formally reprimanded, and it will go on your records!" That meant that they would have to give the commander a half litre to get his nerves back in shape. ...of course, we're used to him and don't react or take particular offense, he is what he is ....on edge, easily wound up, shouts a lot, but usually without real anger ... he cools down soon, so we forgive him his quick temper ... you resent it when he yells and yells, but once he quietens down you feel sorry for him, because you know that he's not mean, that he cares about us, his company, his officers, the "elephants"... Shall we go?" asked Yepimakhov, interrupting Sharagin's reminiscent train of thought. "You go. I'll stay and have some tea..." Almost everyone had finished eating. Sharagin sat alone in the empty mess hall. A soldier went around lazily swiping crumbs off the tables with a towel, two waitresses were exchanging confidences near the kitchen. A soldier without a belt was mopping the floor. Oleg dipped sugar cubes in his tea and sucked them lazily, holding them in two fingers. The sugar changed color, fell apart, melted in his mouth. He ate a slice of bread with butter that smelled rancid. The day they had made their illicit sortie to the shops, he had been indescribably happy. Together with Zebrev, he sent his first presents home for Lena and Nastyusha - a musical postcard and a tin of tea... ... with bergamot oil...not just any old Georgian tea, or that Indian one with three elephants!...how they'll love it!.. Zebrev had taken the trouble of going to the Sharagins, stayed a while and told Lena that they were living and working well, comforted her by saying there was virtually no danger, there were only rare clashes somewhere near the border, far away from the regiment. "Unusual woman, your wife, " he commented. "Harrumph! - Quiet and meek. Wish mine was like that. I took out the parcel from my bag, and she just put it on the couch without opening it. I barely managed to talk her into unwrapping your presents. You have to make sure everything fits, I told her. How many chits did you spend? Actually, you did the right thing. I was too stingy in that shop. She particularly liked that blue dress. I thought she'd rush out and try it on, but she's a strange woman, she just sat down by the table and burst into tears. I asked her why she was crying, and she said she'd never had such beautiful things in her life. How do you like that! I felt really awkward. My wife did nothing but bitch and criticize everything I brought. That dress will be just right for your wife, don't worry, she's very slim. Then she sorted the children's things and dressed up your daughter. Then she sat down again and started asking about you. What could I say to her? - Harrumph! - I can just see her now, sitting on the edge of the chair, pale as anything. Is she sick or something? Very fragile, she is.... ... like a cup from a Chinese tea service... Pashkov bought himself one like that... ...So there I am, talking all sorts of crap, and she sits there listening, smiling and crying. Silly little thing...." Sharagin picked up a tin of aubergine caviar, thanked the waitresses smoking at a corner table and went back to the company. Morgultsev looked annoyed.. "Get yourself ready!" he ordered without preamble. "You'll be going out tomorrow." "Again? Where?" "Who the fuck knows? They called from the political section . They've got some production brigade, or musical brigade or propaganda brigade on their hands. Damn it! I couldn't make head or tail of it, so don't ask me! Don't rile me up, Sharagin, I'm in a bad mood today, so be warned! ...What are you standing around for?" "I'm waiting for more detailed instructions." "Wash your ears, Sharagin, I said you're going out tomorrow!" "Where are we going exactly?" "How the hell would I know? ...The task is a simple one. They want an escort, see, to drive around the villages and teach the fucking spooks to play the balalaika or some such shit!" "Seriously?" "How can I know?! The vehicles are falling to pieces, we've got no spare parts, it's time to write them off and not barge around playing amateur theatricals! I said to them: "The company's not ready to go!" And what did they say to me? "Obey orders, fuck it!" So - you're off tomorrow. We pull out at zero four hundred hours..." Chapter Six. The Agitprop Brigade The paratroop company rumbled through a still sleeping Kabul, as if by waking the hated Afghans would give them a measure of revenge for the troops' early start. The tracks of the BMPs grated over the asphalt, powerful motor roared, headlights swung here and there throwing light on stone walls and the few people up and about at this early hour. It was only after the company had left the city behind that mullahs left their beds and the first cries of "Allah is great" screeched out of the loudspeaker in the minaret. They had to wait for three hours at the last checkpoint before the mysterious agitprop brigade put in an appearance. Morgultsev cursed, calling headquarters to find out where those damned "artists" were. Meantime, the men dozed. "What a screw-up! Damn them all to hell!" Dawn broke. The drivers who had been sleeping in their vehicles at the checkpoint woke up and went off to wash, clean their teeth and eat breakfast. Finally, their transport column moved off toward Salang under BMP escort. All traffic stopped along the roads with the coming of darkness. A temporary exchange of power was taking place in Afghanistan. By day, the roads belonged to the Soviets, and night was the time of the spooks. Lieutenant Yepimakhov, looking very serious, sat on the turret of a BMP wearing an earphone helmet, new pea jacket and did not let go of his machine gun for an instant. ... let him take an excursion, we'll spend a few days in the fresh air, and then it's back to the regiment ... The agitprop brigade arrived at last. Those officers and drivers who had alpine or motorbike goggles put them on to keep the dust out of their eyes. Sharagin nodded to his friend. Yepimakhov raised a thumb in acknowledgment as if to say - this is just great! The company reformed into battle positions, all the trucks taking their places between the BMPs. They topped a hill. A breath-taking panorama opened before them: a beautiful valley lay below, bisected by a concrete road. In the depth of the valley Afghan houses clustered among the "greenery" and along its edges, like mushrooms on a tree stump, forming tiny clusters on the cliffs - sort of tiny oasis amid the trees. "This is zero three, this is Zero three! Can you hear me? Over and out!" came Zebrev's voice through the earphones. "This is zero one! I hear you loud and clear" Roger!" replied Morgultsev. "Column's moving OK," reported Zebrev to his commander. His vehicles were at the end of the convoy, covering the rear. If it were not for the danger, it would have been interesting to watch the column weave its way along the concrete: armored cars, then a couple of Kamaz trucks, the agitprop's armored personnel carrier (APC), a jeep with a red cross, another APC, a fuel truck, a BMP, a "Zil" truck and another armored vehicle to close the line. "Attention on the left!" barked Morgultsev. The BMP cannons rotated to the left. They were passing a bomb-blasted village, which meant "be on your guard!". A line of Afghan passenger buses and trucks were coming towards them. The column went through the Soviet and Afghan posts along the road and past piles of the rusty remains of destroyed combat vehicles, lonely monument to fallen Soviet soldiers. They stopped for a while in the regional center, while the forthcoming operation was discussed with the Afghans. Yepimakhov smiled amiably at the Afghans and nodded to the urchins who clustered around, begging. "Don't mistake those animal grins for friendly smiles!" cautioned Morgultsev as he passed by. "What do you mean? They're only children!" "Sons of bitches," corrected Morgultsev. Several Afghans, unarmed but dressed in army uniform climbed on to the first BMP to show the way to the village. As bad luck would have it, the selected village lay a fair distance from the main road. It was not comfortable going so far. The officers and men traded silent looks of inquiry: were they heading into a trap? "Should've posted sentries first, and then go into this godforsaken hole!" muttered Morgultsev. The company spread out over the village, taking up defensive positions. The vehicles were parked as close as possible to the houses, waiting. "What they're doing isn't worth a tinker's damn, but we've got to cover them!" commented Morgultsev angrily. "Going along any country road without sappers!" Only Yepimakhov, who did not yet understand all the dangers of this window-dressing venture into an isolated village, who had not yet smelled gunfire and knew nothing of the treachery of the Afghans, was inspired by the situation. He was gripped by revolutionary fervor. Even the officers of the agitprop group kept a wary eye on the surrounding hillsides, at the armed men who mingled with the crowd of locals. "Who's that with a machine-gun and worry-beads?" asked Yepimakhov, suddenly feeling a stab of unease. "Is that a spook?" The skinny Uzbek who was the agitprop interpreter, a small man who looked like a ruffled sparrow, glanced at him with narrowed eyes: "Don't use that word. It means "enemy." That man over there, ' he indicated the armed Afghan with a jerk of his head, "belongs to the self-defense unit." "Oh...I see...." "You new here?" "Yes... My name's Nikolai." Yepimakhov held out his hand. "Tulkun." The interpreter's hand was small and limp. "Look Tulkun, could you tell me a couple of phrases that I could say to these people?" "What phrases?" asked the Uzbek, still eyeing him distrustfully. "Well, something like 'how are you doing? or 'is everything in order?"', that type of thing'" The Afghans usually say: "Djurasti, cheturasti?'" Yepimakhov wrote this down in a small notebook, then repeated the words aloud. The armed Afghan from the self-defense brigade beamed at him. "Djurasti, cheturasti, grow your dick until your old age-sti, chopper-sti will come here-sti, and that will be fuck-all-sti for you-sti!" mocked senior warrant officer Pashkov. "I would advise you," said the interpreter when Pashkov was out of earshot, "to learn some verses from the Koran." "Why?" "They could come in useful. Yepimakhov dutifully wrote out a long sentence dictated by the interpreter: "And what does this all mean?" "It means that there is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. " The interpreter took Yepimakhov by the arm, lowering his voice confidentially. "If you get captured, keep saying that over and over. The spooks won't kill you then... Excuse me, I have to go and help the doctor. We can talk later." "Capture?" repeated Yepimakhov, stunned. "I've no intention of being captured by the bandits! I'd never plead for mercy like that Uzbek!..." Sharagin felt strange, taking part in this charitable agitprop venture. He sat on the sun-warmed armor and smoked, eyes roving over the surrounding slopes, the armed Afghans, the activities of the agitprop brigade staff. ... Morgultsev is right when he says that "the only good Afghan is a dead one" ... all these Afghan villages are hazardous ... you have to keep your eyes peeled every second with these bearded bastards ... turn your back, and you'll get a knife in it before you know it ... ... that's how we screwed up over Afghanistan! Instead of bombing the shit out of them, they play Mister Nice Guy with them, thinking that a sack of grain's enough to make an Afghan our friend! ... What utter crap! ... Dream on!..." He was used to fighting the Afghans, not visiting their villages and playing namby-pamby. Just look! ... Doctor Dolittle in a nice white coat giving them a medical check-up. It's enough to make you die laughing. He's lucky he's got an armed soldier beside him, you can never know what to expect from these monkeys. They say 'this village supports the people's power regime' ... the hell it does! Simply the men have all gone off into the mountains or to Pakistan, where they're being trained to lay mines, what else can they do? There's no work for them, and they've forgotten how to work the land!... then the men will return, and the village will belong to the spooks again...look at that old guy all covered with sores and skin ulcer's pushing his way through to the table with the medicines ... back home he wouldn't be allowed inside a hospital, but would be packed off to a leper colony ... and you, old man, probably go out into the fields every day ... Dolittle there puts some lotion on a piece of cotton-wool and swabs down the sores, not afraid of infection" "there you go," he tells the oldster through the interpreter. "There you go. Next!"... dekhkane, what a word - sounds similar to our Russian 'workers and peasants'! Dekh-kane-ne! Whole village is turning out by the looks of it, they believe that this is all it takes - a swab of something or a pill, and all their ills will be cured! Blessed are those who have faith! That junior lieutenant who's the interpreter can barely keep up translating their babble: hepatitis, ulcers, blood pressure, diarrhea, the clap ....good for you, Grandpa! Says he's got the clap, but I bet his soldier still stands at attention, otherwise why would he bother looking to be cured, probably has a nice new young bride lined up, polygamy's not a problem here ... Bravo, Dolittle! Nothing you can't handle! Calm and collected, helps all the natives, gives one a packet of powder, breaks a pill in half for the other and tells him that one half's for the diarrhea, and the other half for headaches. ...the spooks are pleased the Russian doctor's cured them, gave them three tablets and made them well...that nurse they've got with them is something, though! I wouldn't mind traveling around villages for weeks just for her... she's examining the local women ... shoving a stethoscope under a raised burqa... I can imagine the filth underneath! Probably hasn't washed since the day she was born ... you can't see her face...probably she's uglier than a hundred Chinese... the nurse is monitoring her heartbeats: tick-tock, tick-tock... can't tell the woman's age - could be anything from twenty five to sixty five... they all have equally shriveled hands, and the rest is under those robes... ... hey, nursie, you'd be better off monitoring my heart! ... there they go over by the truck, sacks of grain going one after the other, and just watch the spooks grabbing those free galoshes... not everyone back home's got shoes, and we've been living without decent roads for centuries! dirt everywhere, any town you name, it'd be better if they gave out free galoshes to our own Soviet citizens: here you are, instead of asphalt on the roads! a pair of galoshes for every Soviet family!... like hell! the Afghans need them more, you see... the friendly Afghan people! we're helping the revolution ...if we didn't throw everything away to these so-called allies in the socialist camp and in our struggle, we'd have a chance to live like normal human beings ... hey, the natives have started a fight, what do they call them? saksauls? aksakals? elders? going at each other like angry roosters, give them a chance and they'll work up a real Waterloo! grain being issued by the sack-load, all free of charge!.. ah, they've put on a movie... what in hell's the point? a Russian movie at that, a classical masterpiece ... 'Anna Karenina' isn't it? dubbed of course, but are these creeps likely to have any idea about what's being shown on the screen? ... hey, they've shown only one part, and are wrapping up...some agitation and propaganda exercise! ...and over there, they've got native songs blasting out over a loudspeaker and are handing out leaflets ... it'd be better if they printed more books back home instead of these leaflets, you can only get proper books with special cards, and the amount of paper they've wasted on these leaflets would be enough to print the entire works of Dumas, I bet!... tell me, what use are these leaflets for the natives? they're all illiterate, anyway! They haven't even learned to wipe their asses with paper! they squat for just a piss!.... ... the lieutenant who was interpreting for Doctor Dolittle's talking to the elders now ... why don't we bring out a piano-accordion, sing some songs do a little dance for them, maybe then they won't start shooting at our backs when we leave this bloody village! we'll all get ourselves killed with this idiotic agitprop do-gooding!... "Show's finally over," said Morgultsev, not hiding his relief. They crawled back towards the surfaced main road and returned to the regional center. The commanding officers of the agitprop brigade retreated to confer with Afghan activists in a one-storey barracks. ... bet they've gone off to eat pilaf ... and we have to sit around and wait, like beggars on the threshold... Impudent, pestering natives began sneaking around the army vehicles like flies. Some of them were fluent in Russian swear-words. Weaving around, prying, staring, they try to sell something to the Russians: two offering wares, four hanging around looking out for something to steal. ... blink an eyelid, and they'll dismantle the BMP in five minutes flat ... ... that sonofabitch isn't as high as the vehicle wheel, but he's ready to try and lug it off on his back ... "I'll show you baksheesh in a moment!" roared private Chirikov, and rattled a grenade menacingly. ... those bastards aren't even a little bit scared, they know that nobody'll shoot them here ... A red and white civilian bus pulled up on the other side of the road from Sharagin's vehicle. A few minutes later it drove off, leaving an old Afghan with a girl aged four or five sitting on his back, her arms around his neck. Bending his trembling knees, the old man set the girl down and stood there, looking around and seeming at a total loss. To the right, a group of Indian traders sat in a group drinking tea, on the left - bearded men with machine guns were exchanging greetings, hugging one another and touching cheeks. ... either they're spooks that are observing a cease-fire agreement, or they're so-called people's militia, who are also spooks , but today they're for the Kabul regime, and tomorrow against it ... Hesitantly, bowing like a slave and cringing, the old man approached the traders, paused beside them and mumbled something, indicating the little girl with his hand. The traders eyed him contemptuously and shrugged. They turned away from him, but the old man did not go away. He milled around indecisively, turning his head this way and that, finally stopping a passer-by. The passer-by did not want to listen. ... that child looks sick ... or maybe she's sleepy ... Nastyushka, I wonder what my little Nastyushka's doing right now? He imagined her romping around in the grass in little white knickers, surrounded by butterflies, while Lena lay nearby on a blanket, reading and enjoying the sunshine .... Sharagin watched the confused old man, who disappeared and reappeared through passing traffic. He shifted from one foot to another on the spot and glancing at the little girl, who was leaning over at a strange angle towards the traders. ... what if that were my Nastyusha?.. "Gerasimov?..." "Sir!" "Run down and get me an interpreter from the agitprop brigade. Not that Uzbek, though, there's a Russian junior lieutenant there. Tell him to find out from the old man ... Which one? That one that's crossing the road! Tell him to find out what's wrong with that little girl. Got that? On the double! Savatyev and Sychev - you come with me. You keep a watch here," he added to Yepimakhov, who had just come up. Had anyone asked Sharagin right then why he was concerning himself with the old man's problems, he would probably have been unable to answer, it was just that at this specific time, he thought of nothing else and, moreover, it looked as though the child was crying. The old Afghan replied with a torrent of words, gesticulating wildly with typical peasant incoherence. "His grand-daughter's been wounded. Got a bullet in the shoulder. She needs a doctor," translated the junior lieutenant. The soldiers carried the child across the road and put her down near the BMP and the vehicles of the agitprop people. "Chirikov!" "Sir!" "Find the doctor!" "Yessir!" Sharagin turned back to the interpreter and explained, as if justifying himself: "I thought she might have got travel-sick on the bus. Then I saw her keeling over...." Chirikov returned alone. "Where's that Dolittle?" demanded Sharagin in displeased tones. "He's over there, comrade lieutenant, having dinner with the Afghans ... Says he'll come soon..." A crowd of some thirty curious Afghans gathered around in a circle, pushing to get a look, clambering on to each other's shoulders. "Chase 'em off!" ordered Sharagin. Private Burkov aimed his gun at the Afghans, snapped the bolt. The kids jumped back, but were unafraid. They mocked the Russian soldiers. The girl sat there, crying quietly. The doctor arrived finally, rolled up the torn sleeve and took a cursory look at the thin arm bandaged with dirty rags covered with dried spots of blood. It looked as though the bullet entered the shoulder and was lodged below the shoulder-blade. The interpreter repeated the old man's account of what had happened: "She was working in the fields in the topmost village. The spooks often fire on the Russian outpost, the Russians fire back, and the civilians get the worst of it. This was a stray bullet. The field's right in the middle of the crossfire... She was hit about three hours ago." - poor little thing, in pain for three hours ... The doctor put on a new dressing, gave the child a painkiller injection, and told the interpreter to tell the old man that the girl must be taken to hospital at once, and have an operation. "Tell him that the bullet may have grazed one of her lungs, and there's damage to the blood vessels. Tell him to hurry. That wound could turn septic." "I don't know how to say that ..." "Well, tell him simply that she's got to have an urgent operation. Tell him to take her to Kabul. Otherwise she'll die!" "He says he's got no money." "Oh, shit!" spat the doctor. "What's it got to do with me? Am I a doctor, or a taxi driver? Am I supposed to operate on her here with my bayonet knife?!" "Hang on," interrupted Sharagin. "Are there any sacks of grain left?" "Probably," nodded the interpreter. "Give him a sack. Any car will take him to Kabul in exchange for that." "That should be discussed with the commander..." "What's there to discuss? How many bags did you give away to the spooks in that village?! I'll go and speak to your commander myself. Where is he? "Here he comes now. Captain Nenashev. " The commander of the agitprop unit needed no persuasion, turned out to be a right kind of guy. He understood what was happening at once and ordered a bag of grain unloaded. In the time it took to flag down a car, haggle with the driver and bring a sack of grain from the truck, the doctor scribbled something on a scrap of paper which he handed to the interpreter: "Tell him to go to the Soviet hospital in Kabul and give them this note. I've written down what's necessary..." Chapter Seven. Morgultsev In the morning, the agitprop commander decided to visit some more villages in order to "get rid of" the remaining humanitarian aid in the trucks, then return to Kabul with a glowing report about the latest successful propaganda action. Once again, nobody asked the paratroopers whether they wanted to trek from village to village, or not. They were assigned to guard and were under the orders of the political workers, so they were bored and had nothing to do from early morning onwards. They pitched camp in a field behind the Soviet checkpoint. Lieutenant Yepimakhov was becoming used to life on the armor, and had by now a close look at the Afghans. He placed the troops in position quite confidently and fairly sensibly, assigned sentries for the night. There was a definitely commanding note in his voice now, even though it was still a bit overdone and too loud, imitative, but even that was not bad. The main thing was to keep the troops on their toes and respect the voice of their commanding officer. ...so that they'll hear his voice in their dreams alongside their mothers'... The "elephants" were nobody's fools, either, if they should notice a blind spot or a hint of indecisiveness, it would be the end for that officer's authority, the old-timers would be on his back in a flash. They know their own worth, move around sloppily, know how to avoid duty and are masters of kibitzing. At first they traded knowing winks, why show initiative? We'll wait until we get orders, let the "finch" jump around for a bit, sweat some, realize that he's nothing without us; was the attitude of the "grandpas" toward the new commander. Yepimakhov was not confused. He issued a string of orders, did not take offense at silly questions and jibes, pretended not to notice them and showed a strict face. His expression seemed to indicate that he was very displeased with the men, but was holding back. Still, the implication was clear that he would have no hesitation in giving someone a punch in the face if he decided to do so. The "grandpas" had not seen him like this before, decided that it wasn't worth pushing their luck and, like king Solomon, settled on a compromise solution: they stripped to the waist and, snapping their braces, loudly repeated Yepimakhov's orders to the finches and dippers. Those, in turn, bared their torsos, spat on their hands and started shoveling, breathing in the aroma of freshly-turned earth. These lowest of the low had no way of understanding the likes of their new commander in any case, nor did they have the time - pick up shovels and dig! put your backs into it! get it all done before dark The first missile landed about one hundred meters from the camp. Yepimakhov turned and saw a pillar of smoke. Five seconds later a second surface-to-surface missile came closer. First he heard its whistling approach and decided, for some strange reason, that the next one would hit the camp squarely and he would be killed. Yepimakhov was dumbfounded, milled around and shouted to the men to take cover, even though most of them had already done so. He looked around frantically for a safe place. The third missile hit the ground about fifty meters away, the earth shuddered, and its movement under his feet filled Yepimakhov with terror. The following hits were scattered in the field behind the camp. As soon as it formed, fear, deep, animal fear, engulfed the lieutenant's heart, mixed up his thoughts, drained all resolve and assumed confidence. He fought the all-pervading fear, with the natural impulse to hide, to flee from danger. He shook all over, knees buckling, but stood his ground, repeating over and over: "You're an officer, you don't have the right to be afraid, you're an officer, you don't have the right to be afraid." All in all, only seven missiles came over the hill. Sharagin counted the explosions. Taking cover, just in case, behind the armored bulk of the BMP, he and the officers of the agitprop group tried to estimate where the missiles were coming from. The spooks were clearly shooting at random. Most likely they had spotted the Soviet convoy traveling and then breaking camp from some vantage point, and decided to have a go. There was another explosion further away, somewhere behind them on the road leading to Kabul. Really alarmed this time, Sharagin and the agitprop officers spun around as if on command. For a moment they wondered if the spooks were coming at them from two different directions. There was a chatter of machine gun fire from the road. It was comforting to know that there was a Soviet outpost nearby, a reliable shield on one flank at least. Captain Morgultsev became nervous, lit a cigarette and went off to contact Zebrev's platoon. Returning, he gestured Sharagin aside: "Zebrev's lost